a peek inside the poetic freak

I sleep a lot these days. I make time to take naps. I lie awake at night waiting for slumber to embrace me, suffocating my consciousness into its sub, sending me to dreams I’ll forget the minute it ends.

I sleep more these days. Even when I wake up, I force my eyes to shut the light out. I try to ignore the light that tries to tingle my skin. I grasp my blanket tighter, as if it’s going to shield me from everything bad the light could ever do. As if the slightest exposure would give me cancer.

I want to sleep all the time these days. I like being unconscious. It means not remembering. It means not having to do anything. Just breathe. Just relax. Just feel your body working—feel you’re living. Sleeping means no drama, no pain, no responsibility.

Some people like to sleep because dreams can be so much better than reality. But my reality is worse than having no dreams at all.

My reality is me oozing in and out of sadness. And I try to get away from the madness by sleeping.

Sadly, I forgot something—when you sleep, your memories become long-term. And like many people feeling their days are heavy, I too sleep with thoughts so weary, waking up dreary.

So sadness saddened by sleep suffocates serenity daily. Thus is the wheel that keeps on turning. And I have no idea how to stop this thing.